The snow-capped peaks of the northern ridge loomed like jagged, frozen teeth against a bruised, twilight sky. The wind here did not merely blow; it howled, carrying with it the bitter bite of frost and the faint, unsettling scent of sulfur that leaked from the distant threshold of Vael'ethor.
Every step forward felt as though my boots were glued to the sheets of black ice hiding beneath the fresh powder, but Malaki set a relentless pace ahead of me.
He moved with the practiced grace of a predator accustomed to treacherous terrain, his heavy, dark wool cloak snapping violently behind him. He did not look back to see if I was keeping up, nor did he offer a hand when my knees buckled over a hidden ridge.
Yet, every few paces, the ambient frost around my boots would subtly liquefy into a slushy grit, giving my soles just enough traction to keep me from pitching headfirst into the ravine below.
